


Counterpoint (Etude for Piccolo in E-flat Minor)

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Basketball, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, M/M, Remix, Remix Duello 2010, summer of ketamine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-09
Updated: 2010-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deadline approaches.  House tries to make the best of things as much as he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counterpoint (Etude for Piccolo in E-flat Minor)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Piccolo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019) by [zulu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu). 



> Written for Remix Duello 2010. Many, many thanks to Bell for her amazing and thorough beta!

At seven-thirty in the evening, House lounges on his car outside the parking lot of the gym. It's late July and the air has yet to cool off, humid and heavy in his lungs as he breathes in. It does nothing to soothe though; he crackles with impatience.

Foreman's running late.

The man lives by rote. This gym is where he stops at, three or four nights a week, to play an anonymous game of pick-up basketball. House has spied on his coming and going, though he's never gone in himself. With his cane he was too obvious. Now, in his shirt and shorts and Nikes, he's just another customer.

He's been here half an hour already, and he's bored. Foreman's not gonna show up any time soon, he thinks. Probably caught up at the hospital. House can only guess; he hasn't been back since the shooting, after the ketamine.

Two months ago, and he hasn't stopped. Running, laughing, living again. King of the world, and Jesus, what a rush. Without the pain, the scar hidden by his long shorts when he runs, or when he's writhing under Foreman's touch, sometimes he forgets it's there. Sometimes he forgets, how ephemeral this is likely to be.

He stirs a bit to find himself rubbing his thigh and sets that thought aside. He may as well make good use of his time. Plus, it'll piss off Foreman in one easy step when he finally does arrive. Win/win. Works for him.

He slides off the roof of his car, bounces inside and heads straight to the locker room, where a dozen guys hang around, waiting for the previous group to finish in the gym. After a minute, one of them notices him; he nudges his buddy and they turn as a group to stare.

House stares back defiantly. A short, compact man wearing a Jackson State shirt steps forward.

"Who're you?"

House stands evenly, juts his chin forward. "House. I'm a friend of Foreman's."

One or two raise an eyebrow, and they all exchange glances, identical Foreman has friends? expressions on their faces. Jackson State peers at House. "Yeah?"

"Well, actually I'm the secret lover he keeps in the closet."

The other guys snort, amused; Jackson State smirks, and just like that they let them in. Jackasses, he thinks. He includes Foreman in that assessment. These idiots are garden variety, unable to recognize the truth if it whacked them in their faces; Foreman's an idiot for not taking advantage of it, if he just plays the occasional pick-up game with them.

Jackson State nods at him. "Can you play?"

House grins. "Best way to find out is let me."

The door opens then, and the previous group traipses into the change room. The others push out into the gym with its worn laminate floor and windows streaming late July light above the stands. House enters last, and breaks into an unfettered grin. He inhales deeply. Old sweat and shoe rubber are sharp in his nose. This is where it's at.

"Hey. House. Show us what you've got."

Jackson chest-passes a ball to him. House catches it, aware of a dozen sets of eyes watching. He doesn't flinch at the smarting in his palms from the force of the throw. Instead he relishes it; it's been two lifetimes ago since he felt this last. The leather feels cool and foreign in his hands, but he knows that'll change soon. He tries a few test dribbles and shots off the backboard. His angles are off, too: he can't seem to get the ideal distance between the ball and his body, and he's forgotten how to judge his aim. Only three of the ten shots make it in. But he remembers the fundamentals well enough, and he knows his height'll help on defense.

"Good enough," Jackson State says after a minute. Easy as that. "You're on Shirts."

Jackson State peels his T-shirt off and tosses it onto the bench, then tosses out balls to every member. This group is more organized than House gives them credit for. They do actual warm-ups before they start play. House easily has a good ten years on the oldest there, his scar hidden beneath his cutoffs notwithstanding. Still, he matches their pace easily; the others seem impressed that the old guy can keep up.

All that running. Pretending that the scar doesn't exist.

They finish the warm-up drills, but Foreman's not here yet. There's always the chance he won't show at all, but habits don't break, not really. They only bend, for about two months at most, then snap back with reinforcements. House doesn't know anyone for whom that didn't happen.

Besides, he hasn't tracked Foreman's steps to this gym for nothing. He'll show up, eventually.

House takes his place at center. One of the subs starts play, tossing the ball up. House taps it forward, but the opposing center, two inches shorter and probably thirty pounds heavier, slams into him. The momentum knocks him off-balance; House recovers though, stays on his feet. Two months ago, that feat would have only been a dream. In a second he's galloping down the court.

House doesn't see Foreman arrive; just that twenty minutes later, he's not on the sideline, and then when he looks over again, he's there, as if he'd appeared out of thin air. You're late, House thinks, but it doesn't matter, he's too exhilarated in the moment. Time for jabs later.

Just then, the Skins gain possession and race down the floor. The Shirts fly in pursuit; House deviates from the straight, so he can clip Foreman when he's not watching.

"Hey!"

House smirks over his shoulder at him and sprints back into play. He can't hear what, if anything, Foreman yells at him. But he can feel Foreman's gaze follow his every move. Down the court, House steps in front of his man and blocks a pass. The Skins make a layup and check the ball back to the Shirts.

On the way back to the other end of the gym, House switches off with one of the other players. Sweat beads on his forehead and stings his eyes. He stands at the bench, takes one long swallow from his water bottle, then spills water over his head, scrubbing his face and running his hands through his dripping hair. Foreman stalks over and grabs his arm.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He's pissed and not even pretending to hide it. A great start to the evening.

"Playing some b-ball with my homies," House shouts gleefully in a mock gangsta accent.

Foreman hesitates, then rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

He's going to play the feign ignorance game. House is a little disappointed--he was looking forward to baiting Foreman in front of the other guys on the sideline--but he's not surprised. Besides, it's enough that he's here, in Foreman's face, as he'd planned. He can afford to be generous and let this go, at least. There's still the rest of the game to get his digs in.

(Foreman's probably annoyed that he's wearing his Columbia shirt too, though he hasn't asked for it back, either. House doesn't intend to return it anyway.)

Foreman brings his water bottle to the bench, peels off his T-shirt and joins the Skins. House studies him obliquely, notes the slight tremor in his muscles, the cool air tightening his nipples. He tries not to imagine rolling his tongue around them.

House knows Foreman's thinking the same thing. The post-game sex is gonna be amazing.

A minute later Foreman subs in. He immediately catches a pass and leads the Skins down the court. House jogs in place to keep the blood pumping, follows Foreman's every move. This is what matters, the rhythm and squeak of sneakers on the laminate, the rolling sweat down his back; not two months, two weeks or tomorrow later. Christ, it felt good.

Foreman takes a shot; it spins off the rim and one of his teammates taps in the rebound. At that point House subs back in. He should be playing center again, but he takes power forward instead, opposite Foreman; he can't feign ignorance if House is in his face. House keeps one hand hovering over his chest, waves his other hand in front of his eyes, blocking his vision.

It works, too: Foreman's jaw stiffens and he glares.

"What are you trying to prove?" Foreman asks between breaths.

House grins. The game's just got all the sweeter.

"Showing off my mad skillz," House replies, and laughs for good measure.

The Shirts take possession and fly down the court. House sprints, beats Foreman to the key. Foreman's mask slips again, eyes wide; clearly he's not used to House outrunning him. Joy surges in House's chest at catching Foreman off-guard again. Oh, yeah.

He's been gleefully keeping Foreman off-keel ever since he walked out of the hospital, three days after the ketamine treatment. If he'd known it'd be this easy, he might have angled for the ketamine before he got shot. Two months of it: it's been nothing short of glorious. Sucking Foreman off, watching him curl with pleasure; the look on Foreman's face as he pounds into House's ass, when House clenches around him. As adept as Foreman thinks he is at being indifferent, his body always betrays him.

This game is no exception. House catches a pass, shoots, but it bounces off the backboard and out-of-bounds. The Skins take the throw-in, passing to Foreman who hustles the ball back down the court, House on his heels. Foreman passes to the Skins center, who shoots; House lunges into Foreman's path but Foreman hurtles forward, pushes House aside with his shoulder. Foreman catches the rebound and sinks the ball in.

House doesn't miss Foreman's little smirk of victory. He answers with one of his own. This is too good; Foreman doesn't even know how he's being manipulated. Foreman takes the ball and bounces it to him from the back line. He squeezes it, his shoulders bunching up, skin glistening under the harsh glare of the overhead lights.

"You're going down," he says. He's deadly serious.

House's grin widens of its own accord. "Bring it on," he shoots back in the same tone.

At last, the truth between them. It has all the trappings of a game, but it's not, it never was: there's no room for kinder, gentler. House has been waiting for this confrontation for the last two months. It's not just his body House wants to claim; he wants Foreman's mind, too, before the inevitable.

Foreman chucks the ball at his chest, hard. House catches it and grins, taunting; Foreman scowls. He's already forgetting himself. House launches an overhand pass at one of the Shirts, cherry-picking at half-court, and they sprint towards the key. They bump each other as they run.

All the years House has spent studying Foreman pay off now. He's never played basketball against him before, but that doesn't matter: he can predict Foreman's breaks and fakes in the gym as well as he can at the hospital. No matter the venue, people don't change. A lesson Foreman should have learned, has yet to learn.

A lesson House is glad to teach. He can play on a team when it suits his interests: it's true that there's no "I" in the word, but there is a "me" if you jumble up the letters, so really, what difference was there? He can depend on his teammates because predictability is, on the surface, the same as trust. Another moral he wants to hammer into Foreman, with each screen he runs him into, with each pass he makes. Sooner or later he might even make the connection.

Minutes bleed from the clock; pick-up players leave, until it's five-on-five and the play's non-stop. Now every pass, shot, fake, dodge is matched and mirrored: he and Foreman are one-on-one, choreographed and scored in cut-time. House grasps every beat, every second, sixty, ninety, one-twenty. His mouth dries out, he wants a break, but with this crowd--with Foreman--it's the ultimate weakness. At least Foreman's in the same state, which means House is still winning.

He's been winning since the day he showed up at Foreman's apartment a week after he'd left the hospital. Since the day he jacked him off against the wall that time, since the day he tongue-fucked him to within an inch of his life, the last two months have been one long string of triumphs. Being able to steal Foreman's Columbia shirt and go for a run--a run--while leaving Foreman completely spent and sprawled on the bed--House never dreamed he'd get even that. But here he is. Two months now, and the other proverbial Nike has yet to drop. As much as he knows this can't last, sometimes he catches himself thinking that maybe, just maybe, he can dare to hope again. Like now, when he pauses at the tail end of the game, to lean over with hands on his knees and his chest heaving, and grins up at Foreman.

At ten o'clock the overhead lights shut off. All of them are too tired to talk. The other players leave without saying goodbye, though Jackson State nods at House as he collects his shirt from the bench and passes by.

A clear invitation to play again sometime. _What, you didn't think I had it in me?_ House thinks, relishing Foreman's bewildered expression. House can win with a team as well as he can by himself. It's just that he can afford to be more generous with the credit when he's well.

House and Foreman are the last ones out. Foreman swallows the last of his water and heads for the change room. House grins at the slight tremor in Foreman's legs, aerobic metabolism kicking into gear again. He's used to running, but they'd pushed themselves those last few minutes; his own legs feel like jelly. He raises his head toward the dark ceiling, his fingers searching for his carotid pulse by rote. He then follows Foreman to the change room.

Foreman removes his gym bag from his locker; House swipes his towel and throws it around his neck. He uses one corner to wipe his face dry, and smirks, daring him. Foreman glances up the row of lockers. The room's empty except for them; the gym is closed, and the cleaning crew hasn't arrived yet. He then steps into House's space, pulls him closer with the tail of the towel, and kisses him.

Yes. House lets Foreman deepen the kiss, swirling his tongue lazily in Foreman's mouth. Foreman steps forward until House is pressed against the row of lockers behind him. House hisses at the cold metal through his soaked shirt. The change room is silent, save for the whirring of the fans above and the roar of blood in House's ears.

Sex in the locker room; House is more than good with that. House's hand creeps up, slides along Foreman's ribs, down his side to rest at the small of his back. Foreman's still not wearing a shirt; his skin is slick and cool. The kiss is almost tender, not Foreman at all; it lasts, and lasts. Foreman hums against House's lips, dips his head down to taste the sweat between the notch of his collarbones; House's cock hardens instantly.

Foreman rests his hands on House's hips, then slides them up under the shirt, over his abs, chest, arms. House trembles under the touch, eases his hand around to the front of Foreman's shorts. Foreman breaks the kiss and sighs. "No," he says.

"Spoilsport." House rubs his palm firmly over Foreman's cock. Beneath the slippery nylon Foreman is half-hard. Foreman rolls his hips forward lazily into the touch.

"Not here."

"You want to."

Foreman grins at him, head tilted back. "I want to fuck you," he says.

His voice is even but his rapid breathing screams his arousal. House's dick throbs with the words; he meets Foreman's half-lidded eyes. Exactly where the evening was always headed; they'd both be lying if either denied it. Foreman chuckles.

"Your place," he adds. "I want you on your knees. Holding on to the bed, while I fuck you hard."

Despite himself, House swallows reflexively at the intensity in Foreman's voice. Foreman grabs him and kisses him again, harder this time. House responds, matching his fervor. Whatever Foreman dishes out, he's more than willing to take, and give back.

Foreman suddenly breaks the kiss and pulls on his shirt. He hurries out of the change room without looking back; House snorts when he sees how Foreman holds his gym bag in front of him. He follows close behind; Foreman's already pulled out of the gym parking lot by the time House reaches his car.

And Foreman's already at his apartment waiting in House's bedroom, naked and half-hard, by the time House makes it back. House crosses the room without hesitation and grasps him, already stroking. Foreman shoves House's shorts and underwear down, pushes up the shirt until House peels it off himself.

"On the bed," Foreman says hoarsely.

House moves closer instead, speeds up his pumping, a deliberate ploy to push Foreman further. It works; Foreman grunts, pushes him off then shoves him onto the bed. He climbs on top and pins him down, sitting on his thighs while he strokes himself, a challenge on his face. House's dick hardens again at the heat in Foreman's gaze; but instead of pushing back, he reclines on his elbows to watch.

"Come on, faster," House mutters.

He lifts his hips, frowning in concentration, but Foreman doesn't touch him. Instead he reaches across House to the nightstand drawer, feels around for lube and a condom. He opens the lube, pours it into his palm, and smears it down House's dick.

House bites back a gasp at the cool slickness. It's then that he decides what he really wants from Foreman. He's been forcing him to give his all tonight; this time it'll be all the way, nothing between them.

Before Foreman can open the condom packet, House bats it out of his hand. Foreman pauses and shakes his head. "Might want to use your words this time, House."

House rolls his eyes. "Picked up any diseases lately? Cute young things at the disco?"

"No," he says. "You?"

"No," House says simply, staring up at him. It's not only because he hasn't had the chance.

Foreman hesitates; House can hear him weighing the options. "Fine," he snaps, and sets the condom aside.

Foreman slides his cock through his lubed fist. He pushes a finger behind House's balls and up. House shudders, trapped by his legs, and pushes down onto Foreman's finger. But Foreman goes too slowly. House moves his hips faster, and Foreman stops, one finger still inside him.

House glares at him. "Anyone ever tell you that slow and steady gets you beaten to a pulp?"

"Yeah, and nice guys finish first and then fall asleep," Foreman says. He pushes three fingers in all at once.

House grunts, closing his eyes and frowning again, getting used to the slick girth filling him, until impatience wins out and he fucks himself on Foreman's fingers. Foreman finds his prostate, rubbing firmly, and House struggles not to shoot his load right then. His mouth falls open as he pants.

The next thing he knows, Foreman has removed his fingers, and is pushing his cock in with a drawn-out groan. House grits his teeth and bears down, clenches around the fullness. He opens his eyes to see Foreman's glazed over, his jaw slack with pleasure. House can't blame him. God, the feel of skin, not latex--he tilts his hips up to meet Foreman's thrusts, trying to pull him in deeper.

It's not enough. House wrestles his way out from beneath him, shoves until he has enough room to spread his legs wider. Foreman pushes House's left leg higher, moving underneath it, and suddenly there it is, hard and deep. House smirks when Foreman groans and slides in further.

"Yeah, like that," he says. "God, fuck."

House lives for Foreman on the edge. Foreman thrusts in, slowly, deeper, and pulls out again, panting, a fresh sheen of sweat on his upper lip. He's struggling for control even as he maintains a steady rhythm.

"Move--your lazy ass," House says after awhile. The words stutter out between breaths. "Come on, I can--beat you on the court, and now this?"

Foreman laughs, rumbling deep in his chest, and House can feel the echo through his thrusts. "House, you couldn't beat my grandmother on the court. She's dead and she has a better shot than you."

Foreman's face softens, completely unguarded. House has been waiting for this moment all evening, been waiting ever since the shooting. He goes still, and smirks. Foreman looks up at him; there it is, finally, Foreman broken wide open, and House can hear his control snap. His face hardens then with pleasure, and he thrusts hard against his prostate.

With Foreman lost, House can moan now, let himself go too. From there it's fast and hot and desperate until Foreman stills; he slams forward, and House bears down with each spasm, feels the come pool inside him.

By the end, Foreman's shaking with it. House is on the edge himself now; he grabs Foreman's hand and brings it to his dick. Foreman jerks him off with expert turns of his wrist, fucking him while he's still hard. Moments later House freezes, his whole body wound tight as a wire. He comes in spurts on his stomach and over Foreman's encircling hand.

Still inside him, Foreman sinks down, all heat and sweat and breath harsh against House's chest. House resists the urge to splay his hands on the small of Foreman's back. This is intimate and trusting enough. He tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, feels his blood slow and Foreman soften. When he slips out, the stickiness follows, trickles onto the sheets.

A couple minutes later, Foreman rebounds, stretches up to kiss him. It's slow and lazy; House can afford to let Foreman think it's a victory. He knows who the real winner is.

"Challenge you to a rematch," House mutters anyway.

Foreman chuckles, rolls off House to lie face-down in the sheets. "Yeah," he says. "All right."

Within minutes, Foreman's breathing the deep and even rhythm of sleep. The rematch will have to wait. House snorts, then lounges in the post-sex lassitude until the stickiness on his stomach and between his ass cheeks becomes too annoying. He pushes himself up and heads to the bathroom to clean up.

His legs are wobbly and he's sore--the good, thoroughly reamed-out kind. He can't remember the last time he felt like this. He finishes up and heads back to bed, where Foreman hasn't moved, and sinks onto the mattress, lets himself sleep the easy, dreamless sleep of the victors.

Foreman's gone by the time House wakes up.

When he stirs, the sun is streaming full through the window glass. House burrows into Foreman's pillow, inhaling the lingering scent. At some point Foreman had tossed his Columbia shirt on House's back, adding to the warmth on his shoulders. It's good, that they've finally reached this understanding. Nothing left between them. Nothing at all. Just as House had always planned--

It's then that he feels it: the familiar and unwelcome clench of his right quad.

 _Fuck._

It's not painful--not yet, but it's only a matter of time when it will be. House freezes, wills it away with all his effort. The spasm fades in a few minutes. House forces himself to relax, rolls over, tells himself it was just a passing minor cramp. Just needs to replenish his salt. He has some Doritos somewhere. Slowly he hauls himself to sitting, swings his legs over the edge of the bed.

A minute or so later he realizes he's been unconsciously massaging his scar.

He pushes the thought away. Doritos, washed down with Gatorade; that'll work. He rises and heads to the kitchen to search for the chips, and ignores the niggling voice that knew--knows--has always known.

Forever is never more than two months long.


End file.
